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“Jealous?”
Ian huffs. “As if.”
The announcement comes over the tannoy. “Train now arriving on platform ten from Edinburgh.”
Max slips his arm around me. “Maybe they’ll have less luggage on this trip.”
I turn into him, laughing. “Do you believe in magic too?”
“It’s only Mum and Dad,” Ian butts in. “Everyone else lives in London.”
I’m confused. “Then who is staying at the RAF Club besides us and your parents?”
“All of us.” Ian smiles smugly.
“But if you have your own places…”
“Easier if we’re all together. I’m sure everyone else moved over sometime today.”
“Ian! Max!” A stentorian yell in a distinctly Scottish accent rises over all the noise at the station. Max’s father may be almost seventy-eight, but his lungs are in good order.
A tall, white-haired man in a Grant tartan kilt strides toward us, towing two huge roller bags. A slightly shorter, black-haired woman in a ruby-red, single-breasted pea coat totters behind on three-inch stiletto heels in matching red, as she struggles to keep up with her husband.
She collapses into the arms of her sons. They hug her, then make sure she’s stable as they release her. Viktoria holds her arms out to me. “Cress. So good to embrace you again.” I move toward her, readying myself for the hug, the kisses on both cheeks, the overwhelming scent of her Rose Desgranges perfume.
I try for an arm’s length embrace, but she crushes me to her. My eyes begin to itch. I hope I can hold back any sneezes as the heavily floral fragrance envelopes me, but a warning tickle from my sinuses warns me a tissue emergency is coming.
Max gently pulls me out of her arms. “Mamoushka. You know Cress is allergic to your perfume.”
“So sorry. I forgot.” Viktoria’s face falls. “Two taxis, Brian. We can go with Ian, and Max and Cress can have some time alone.”
I move closer and squeeze her hand. “It’s okay. You go with Max and Ian, and I’ll ride with Brian. I know you want more time with Max.”
“Come on,” Brian yells, waving his arms madly. “I have two taxis waiting. The cabbies are restless.”
We make our way to the exit, where two traditional black cabs sit by the curb, Brian standing between them and waving. Viktoria still has her arm through mine. “Hah. Max will spend the drive scolding me for all my faux pas.”
“No, he won’t.” I call over to Max. “Max, you be nice to your mother.”
He fakes a hurt expression. “When am I not ?“
Ian opens his mouth, but after Brian gives him the stink eye, he snaps it shut.
Viktoria whispers in my ear, “When we are out and about tomorrow, you and I will find a perfume I like and you can tolerate.” She presses another kiss against my cheek. “Something without flowers. Now, let’s go to the Club.” With a frown, she cranes her neck, searching for Brian.
I point. He is in the cab, slumped down against the backseat.
Two major crashes when he was a pilot means Max’s father finds travel difficult and flying impossible. Last year, the whole family came to Chicago for Christmas and took theQueen Elizabeth IIand the train rather than fly.
I whisper to Max, “I’ll go with your dad. You ride with Ian and your mom.”
“You sure?”
Viktoria calls out, “Your father is tired. He spent so much of the trip pacing up and down the train.” With a doubtful expression, Max climbs into the cab where Ian and Viktoria share a seat.
“RAF Club.” Tired as he is, Brian’s Scottish burr and military tone make him sound like the martinet he isn’t.
“Yes, sir.” The cabbie pulls the brim of his cap.
